


Through the Front Door

by jarethsdragon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A/B/O, AFAB reader - Freeform, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, F/M, alpha/beta/omega
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarethsdragon/pseuds/jarethsdragon
Summary: Why do the strangest and most wonderful things happen through the front door?
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada/Female Reader, Hanzo Shimada/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 128





	Through the Front Door

Hanzo Shimada was legendary for his scowl and that throaty growl. The way that he made everything sound just a little too unimportant, too infantile, too small for him to deal with. Omegas on the base scattered like pigeons in front of a prowling cat. Betas gave him a wide berth, often going out of their way to avoid interacting with him directly. Other alphas? Well, he was just another unmated, unmatched alpha. Perhaps they gossiped that an omega would be the making of him. Perhaps they pitied the omega that would eventually catch his eye.

Still, the gears of Overwatch were greased with the sweat of alphas.

So, the base was crawling with alphas. The usual population had about 93% betas. According to the 2070 census, about 4.83% of the population was omegas and the remaining 2.17% were alphas. Of course, on a military base, there were about 30% alphas, 55% betas, and then a peculiar 15% that refused to be identified, but some of whom were bound to be omegas. Everyone was protected from being publicly identified, no matter their status, but people did gossip, did wonder.

And people gave the alphas that weren’t shy about their status a lot of space.

Out of respect—and a possible worry of history repeating itself—Genji was on the topmost floor of the base housing across the base from Hanzo. As far apart as they could get without one of them being in town. Hanzo was also on a top floor and in one of the slightly more spacious alpha apartments. Gossip said that it would take one of them about twelve to eighteen minutes to climb down the stairs of one, run across the grassy quads and so on, climb the next steps and get to the other apartment front door. Others—a cocky cowboy in particular—said it would be nine to eleven because they’d just jump out the window and land on the ground in some awesome way.

You lived across from Hanzo. You were the plain wooden door and ordinary apartment across from the steel and reinforced door. You had a plain welcome mat and a pot of plastic daisies with a little cute sign across from the plain doorstep with the square, white stone Japanese lantern that never had a candle or fire in it. It was terrifyingly easy to find the alpha apartments—steel and reinforced doors, thick and triple-paned windows, extra thick walls—and there was no doubting you were across from an alpha apartment.

Usually, it wasn’t a problem. Hanzo was a quiet neighbor and the other two apartments on this hallway and floor were empty. He never had loud parties or lots of people coming and going. Gossip said that he drank heavily, but there was never a huge pile of bottles in the recycle bin outside his door like at McCree’s place. Gossip also said that he had moved in a huge punching bag and a variety of weights and since you never heard a television or radio, it seemed plausible. He wasn’t the type to come introduce himself and welcome new people, to knock on a door and want to see the game or anything. All in all, he was an almost ideal neighbor.

You were dragging home two bags of groceries—some orange juice, a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, a can of coffee, some vitamins, a few frozen meals, and a rotisserie chicken—when you finally encountered him. He had a few groceries as well—a huge bag of rice, a couple of bottles with foreign characters, a box of tea—and was unlocking his door. He looked over his muscular shoulder at you and gave you a grunt and a nod.

“Hey there,” you chirped out as you slid your keys into your lock. “Late night grocery run?”

“Nani?” he frowned, looking down at his grocery bag and then at yours.

“Oh... uh....” You frowned, trying to figure out what to say. “I mean, I guess we were both out getting groceries tonight.” You jiggled the keys and opened your door. “I guess I’m just surprised that I didn’t run into you at the market.”

“Oh,” he muttered. He looked at you strangely as your bags banged your knees. “I was... ahh... stocking up.”

You finally got your bags in the door. “Say... do you want to watch the game tonight?”

“The... game?” He opened his door and you caught a glimpse of the spartanly furnished front room. “What game would that be?”

You had no idea. “Umm... I guess.... I mean... I don’t know.” You turned red. “Just, I’ve lived next to you for months and we haven’t ever really... even said ‘hello’.”

“Ahhh. ‘Hello’, then.”

His throaty voice growled at you and gave you a little tingle in your blood. But, he was apparently done since he only nodded and took his groceries into his apartment and closed the door. You heard nothing from him or his apartment, even though you were expecting to hear some kind of something and waited a few minutes. But he was in his sanctum and nothing would pry him out until he was good and ready.

You expected to not see him for a few days. Honestly, you could go days or weeks without seeing him outside of team meetings and occasionally seeing him going around, so a few days was nothing. You actually saw Genji—because Genji was constantly out and about doing things and hanging out and meeting people—but never his older brother.

So, as you prepared a sandwich and got ready to watch some superhero movie you missed catching in the theater, you were not expecting anyone. You were in a ratty pair of ragged shorts and a beat-up Jack Morrison t-shirt and digging out some chips and a soda when your standard-issue doorbell chimed in its standard-issue way.

Assuming it was a girlfriend coming over to lust over the overly muscled hero, you strolled over, dropped your plate on your side table with your soda, and opened the door. Hanzo stood at your door in a hakama and a strange pair of sandals.

“Can I help you?”

“I am looking for Genji.”

You shook your head with a shrug. “I haven’t seen him since lunch. I think he was trying to get a group together to watch some martial arts tournaments.”

He nodded shortly. “I see. I needed to speak with him. I will try his apartment again.”

“Maybe he’s with Jesse? Those two seem to spend a lot of time together.”

“Ahh.... very well.”

He stood there a moment more, looking at you and finally you blurted out. “Do you want to come in?”

“Oh... no. My apologies.”

You gave him what you hoped was a friendly smile. “You know... you don’t need to act like that. All big and scary all the time.”

He didn’t even smile. Instead, his eyes went soft and almost... sad. “Perhaps that is all I am.”

“I... I’m not afraid of you.”

He finally smiled at you. “I am.”

That bald statement flummoxed you. “What?”

There was another long pause and he sighed. “Nothing. Thank you.”

“I am... fine with you know... being friendly. We are neighbors after all.”

He finally said, “Is that... all we are?”

You had nothing to say to that, so finally you settled with giving him another smile. He gave another shallow bow and left you standing there. Again, he walked back into his apartment and there was not another sound.

He didn’t show up the next day at any of the meetings and one of the senior agents impersonally announced the archer was going to be out for a few days. You went back to your apartment, assuming that it was none of your business. You had plans anyway for a long bubble bath and a long evening of delivery pizza and some home movies.

How curious that his door was open just a crack.

You snorted and reached over to close it. Of course, now that you were trying to avoid attracting attention, you fumbled and tripped and ended up crashing the door further open. There was a crash of sound and a cry and you flushed. Hell, Hanzo was probably a little alarmed to hear you clatter into his apartment like that, and you owed him at least the respect to announce that you weren’t trying to barge into his apartment.

“Hey.... Ahh... Umm....” You picked yourself up and looked at him. “Look... I really didn’t mean to crash in like this.”

He was in an almost barren apartment. The front room had a low coffee table with two flat cushions at it. There were no pictures or decorations, but there was a low stand of weights and a huge, professional punching bag on a steel frame. Hanzo stood at the punching bag wearing a thin pair of sweatpants and a pair of gloves that seemed more duct tape than anything else, looking angrily at you.

You gaped at him, anxious as he stalked closer to you and muttering curses under his breath. Backing up hastily, you kept mumbling apologies and trying to get out that you were only trying to close the door when you tripped. You scrambled away and out his door, slamming it in front of you.

For a moment, you didn’t think that you were in time. You stared at the steel door breathlessly, half expecting him to come bursting out anyway. Or clawing through it. Or kicking it down. What would he do then?! He’d probably be furious that you intruded on him. That you—however unintentionally it might have been—burst in on him when he was likely trying to get some private time.

As you stared in fear, you heard a loud thump that seemed to rattle the doorframe. You took a hesitant step back as there was a second pounding thud. You were leaping back, scrambling for your own door as muffled curses poured out and then another echoing thud. It made you shriek and race back into your apartment and slam the door behind you.

You knelt and panted, cowering behind your door. Everything seemed cold—freezing—and you couldn’t stop shivering. You crawled in your professional low and fast way across the carpet so that no one watching your windows could see you as you made your way to the couch and tugged down your blanket to wrap around yourself. It felt like hours before you were able to do more than huddle on your floor. Then even longer before you decided that he wasn’t going to burst into your apartment and you managed to get yourself something hot to drink.

The long bubble bath didn’t seem to be such a great idea—too vulnerable. The television.... You turned on a noisy show—you didn’t care what it was as long as it hid the small noises you made. Then you crawled over and shut all the blinds, drew the few curtains you had. You gripped your small phone and prayed that he wasn’t going to come after you.

You fell asleep huddled on your living room floor, clutching your phone, with all your lights on. The nightmares that brushed your mind made your sleep even more restless than the uncomfortable floor. Finally, you managed to get leaned up against your couch, but nothing could help your innate feeling of cold uncertainty.

That sense of foreboding was realized at some stupid hour of the early morning. There was a frantic clawing at your door. The sound awoke you immediately. You pushed against your couch and began smashing the button on your phone.

Damn the luck—the battery was dead. You usually charged it when you went to sleep and so you had slept with that piece of useless machinery in your fist. But as soon as you unwound enough to crawl to your bedroom, there was another hasty knock and a scrambling clawing.

Hanzo’s voice purred from behind your not-steel-reinforced door. “Open up to me, little pet.”

You shook your head, somehow convinced that he could see you. Shuddering, you tried to just unwind the blanket from around you. It reeked of sweat—although you were feeling those cold shudders again.

There was a hasty series of surprisingly soft taps. Then, a low and seductive baritone voice called to you, “Open your door, little pet—I will not hurt you.”

Finally, you found your voice. “N-n-no!”

He chuckled, low and confidently, and hissed back, “There you are. You are such a slippery thing, aren’t you?” He knocked again. “Come on. Let me in.”

“N-n-no,” you whimpered.

There was a hefty pounding—enough that you were sure that the whole base heard it. He was suddenly growling, snarling. “Open up now—you minx!” His voice rose in command. “Open the door, vixen! I command you.” His voice lowered to a shivery octave. “I am an alpha—I command it. Do you hear me?! I command you to open this door!”

“No!” you screamed back. Tears filled your eyes and you could only pray that your flimsy door would hold up. “No!”

“Serve my rut—now!” His voice was hoarse and you heard him clobber your door again. It rattled noisily and you were sure you saw the door frame shake. Suddenly his voice lowered to a coaxing tone again. “Come now—let me show you how I will take care of you.”

You crawled forward hesitantly. You had a wedge-shaped doorstop and you could shove it under the door. You got the wooden wedge and scooted to the door. As quietly as you could, you pushed it under the door, trying to get it in while he kept hammering on the other side. Finally, you got it under there as the other side got frighteningly silent.

You jammed the thick end of the wedge with your foot one more hard time. It was still—very quiet—as you took in a final deep breath.

“Last chance, kitten,” he whispered in a voice that carried despite its softness. “Little cat, little cat, let me in.”

You finally took in a deep breath. “No!” Your voice cracked into a high and grating pitch. “Whatever you want—go away.”

He laughed shortly. “You are my prey, little one.”

“I’m calling security!”

“I will have you first!” There was another terrifying silence as he seemed to be... was he pacing outside your door? “Stand back, kitten—I am coming in!”

You scrambled away. In your kitchen, you might have a regular phone. Or maybe the bedroom—one more door protecting you. Thrashing out of the clinging blanket, you crawled away from the door.

Hanzo... you heard a huge, ear-splitting crash. You stared as your entire door rattled. His voice was soft and wheedling again. “Little cat, little cat let me in.”

It was too much and you went to your small laser pistol. “I’m serious! Leave me alone!”

He wasn’t listening. “Or I’ll huff—!” Another solid crash that rattled your door. “And I’ll puff—!” Crash! “And I’ll kick your door down!”

“I will shoot your alpha ass!” you cried out.

That made him pause at least. His voice went quiet and became a wheedling begging. “You would not hurt me, would you? Not when I want to simply have some of your time?”

You gripped the pistol frantically and cursed as it shook in your hand. It was probably a miracle it hadn’t gone off already. “Please, Hanzo!”

There was a meaty thunk and your door shuddered and then was still. His voice was deep and husky—you crept closer to hear him—and soft. “You notice me now, eh? Finally, you say my name...”

It seemed... something had changed. You crouched against the door, sitting with your back against it. “Hanzo... please—this isn’t like you.”

“Now, you notice me, eh?” he asked again. “Now, when my rut is rising—now you notice me.”

“Hanzo—your rut?” Well, that made sense—an alpha in a hard rut was a terrifying and unpredictable thing. Jesse was reportedly all soft words and lonely songs and roses in his rut. Genji was supposed to be... thrilling—bringing out toys and all sorts of foreign things. “Hanzo... this isn’t you. You are... in your rut.” Tears filled your eyes. “You need to go back to your place.”

His fist slammed impatiently at your door. “No... not now. I need you. You are not a cold snake, are you, my kitten? To leave me out here like this?” His voice was hoarse and throbbed with a raw sort of energy. “You would not be so cruel to leave me like this?”

“You need to go back to your place—please,” you begged him.

“I was doing well—managing alone,” he whispered. “I have always been alone, eh, kitten.” He must have been pressed right against the door because you were almost certain you could smell his thick, musky rut scent. “I am used to being alone. Even during my ruts.

“And then you fell into my world, eh? Like a gift.” The door shuddered weakly. “I cannot do it alone. I cannot be alone during my rut.”

There was a strange, strangled sound and you heard some kind of unfamiliar sound. He spoke again. “I have always seen you, pet. Like a beautiful temptation, eh?” You dared to stand up and peek out the peephole. You saw the top of the back of his head and his legs kicked out away from your door. “Always seeing and never touching. Listening to your voice and never speaking, never interrupting, never doing anything. I have been good—well behaved—have I not? I have obeyed the rules. I have not hurt you.

“But I need you now!” You saw him through that distorted peephole. “I am not a monk. Surely, I was not meant to be alone. Have I not paid for my sins?!” His voice shook. “I have paid the price. I have sought redemption. I need you now beautiful kitten—even when we are apart.”

Your mouth went dry. You were getting a distorted eyeful—long legs half bared. There was a rhythmic grunting and a thumping at your door, along with a long scratch as if he was scratching it. The tanned skin of his thighs was brilliant against the dark sweats and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and strained. “Do not abandon me now, kitten.”

“I-I-I... I’m here,” you whispered against the wood.

He growled and you saw the legs twitch and tighten. Then he commanded, “Speak again, kitten.” The legs jerked and shifted in the peephole. “If I cannot have you, I want your voice. Speak again and let me... hope.”

You shook as you tried to process what was happening. That rutting scent was slowly and surely trickling through your door, making you feel warm and intimately aware of the wet slick coming between your legs. There was absolutely no mistaking what he was doing on the other side of your door. It was hypnotic, a pulsing and throbbing rhythm as he struggled through his rut.

“W-w-what do you want me to say?!”

“That is what I want to hear,” he sighed. “I want that... just like that.”

“What?”

“I like your voice—when it wavers and I can hear that little tremble. It is like I am there and I can hear you beg me to do more.” You could hear his teeth gritting as he seemed to teeter on some thrilling edge. “I can hear you begging like that.”

“Begging?” You couldn’t help the small tremble in your voice. “For what?”

He let out a growl and there was a thud from the other side of the door. “I want you begging me. Beg me for my touch. Beg me to take you. Beg me to be your alpha, to mate you—to drive into you and beg for my pups.”

There was another throaty groan and he finally ground out, “What are you wearing?”

“I... I am in—,” you whispered, “—I guess some shorts. A t-shirt.”

“Shorts? Tight shorts that make your legs look long and show your thighs. Shorts to make a man beg to lick your legs all over.” His voice deepened, furred, and became throaty. “Tight across your ass to make a man weak and desperate, as if you were made to be mated.” Your knees knocked together at his voice. “So short that they barely cover anything, but enough that an imagination grows desperate.”

You were going to ask him to stop, but your voice failed. His voice went even deeper and the thumping sounds grew faster. “A shirt that beguiles—tight over your curves and thin enough to want ripping. Worn thin and soft and tight that outlines every curve. Even your nipples, like ripe candies that are shadowed, but not hidden.”

His movements were frantic now and his voice became suddenly desperate. “Come out here, mate! Come out, now! Take my knot like a good little omega.” It went impossibly faster and his voice dipped in tone and became more demanding. “I am going to find you and rip that shirt off of you. I am going to tear your whore shorts from your body and then I am going to put your legs on my shoulders as I fuck you. I am going to fuck your cunt and I am going to go harder and faster than anything you have ever known or ever will know.”

You got a little anxious then and your whine must have been what he wanted. There was a strangled cry and a door rattling thump. Then blessed silence that filled your apartment. You looked away for a moment, your instinctive response as distorted as your view of him. Surely it was distortion and not desire! But by the time that you managed to get back to the door, to look out of the peephole, he was gone.

When you opened the door the next day, you were more than alarmed at the severe damage—long clawing scratches and dips of shattered wood that looked like it had been pounded on with a sledgehammer. One or two smears of a flaky, dark rust color trailed in clumsy ways across the door. Your mouth went dry to see the extensive damage as if it was a rut caught in the wood.

You were shaking as you went to your morning meetings. The supervisors gave you a vague nod, and you hesitated to think what that meant. The first meeting was the usual stuff—who was out, special announcements, happy birthdays, and then a few reminders about upcoming meetings and missions. 

Jesse sat next to you and whispered, “They make these things boring so that you have time to drink your coffee.”

“What?!” you hissed.

He snickered and whispered again, “These morning meetings are boring by design.”

There was a loud harrumph as the commander stared at the cowboy. Jesse never even looked repentant, so he sighed loudly and then continued in a firm tone. You shuddered at the sudden tension and it seemed to ache in your head. The archer was notably missing—but with a rut, you didn’t expect to see him. Thank goodness even that meeting ended at long last.

You went to physical training, did some mission prep and reading so that you could do the correct analysis. For all that you would not generally go on a mission, you were one of the priceless parts of the team because you took the general, vague, and often contradictory tips and sightings and the frustrating hunches that cropped up and turned them into actionable missions and tasks. You took the physical training to keep up with the others—some kind of legal requirement—but you were often nestled safely in the base as one of the few people who knew exactly what all was going on.

At the end of the day, you were mentally tired. Not physically exhausted, but mentally strung out. You were glad that your door was repaired during the day despite you not reporting anything, and it felt a little bit better that you had a firm and strong door between you and the archer. You glanced over your shoulder at the closed and silent door across the way from yours. Nothing seemed out of place, but you were just a little nervous.

You slept uneasily and debated not going in at all when your alarm went off. But you were a truthful and honest person that wouldn’t take a sick day if you weren’t actually sick and you were pretty sure a bad night’s sleep didn’t qualify as “sick”. You staggered into your first meeting with a huge cup of coffee and plopped down to hopefully stay awake.

You were finally relaxing slightly—the coffee opening up your sinuses and the caffeine hitting your bloodstream—when the conference room door opened again. You glanced over—along with everyone else in the room—and saw Hanzo walk in with another tall cup of something steaming. He looked down slightly and grabbed the first open chair. You looked at the archer long enough to meet his bloodshot eyes and then glanced down again.

The meeting went through its usual slow paces and you were feeling electrified at the silent presence of the archer. He was silent as usual—he rarely had more to say than a word or two about a member of his team—but you were just anxious in some way that you couldn’t quite name. He was in his rut, wasn’t he? A rut lasting less than four days was unheard of—and he was back in... what was it? Thirty-six hours?

After the meeting, you lingered back to be sure that you wouldn’t get cornered in the hall. Hanzo seemed to be of the same mind as he sat there and stared at his drink. Finally, it was the two of you and the poor soul in charge of gathering the agendas and papers to shred, he jerked as if he was just waking up. Lurching to his feet, he picked up the cup with exaggerated care. It was mind-blowing to see him acting like this and for a moment, you thought he was stinking drunk. His hand shivered and he stared at the cup as if it was a mystery to him. Then he gave a cautious turn towards the door and took shaky steps out.

You stared in amazement after him. He usually was very coordinated and even graceful at times, as if he was constantly dancing. Once Hanzo and Genji were doing a demonstration of katanas and archery and every move was breathtaking as you watched. He seemed to be in some constant state of meditative peace, every move coordinated and choreographed as if he was in an ancient ballet.

Now, he was stumbling uncertainly down the hallway in front of you. You lingered back behind him, but he didn’t seem to notice. You were almost relieved to turn away to make your next meeting as he went the other direction. At lunch, you were shocked to see him slowly stumble in and grab a tall glass of ice water and a plastic-wrapped sandwich and then all but collapse into a chair. He gleamed with sweat, a thick lock of black hair hanging in his face as his hands fumbled with the sandwich. He seemed to scowl at it and you thought you saw him shudder as he stared at it. He grew pale as he took a bite and then a look of pure disgust crossed his face as he forced himself to swallow it. Then he balled it all up and crushed the plastic and bread and filling into an unappetizing ball and shoved it away.

You were increasingly more certain that he was ill, but you weren’t quite as sure as to when Genji strolled easily in. He tended to keep the body armor and face armor to a minimum on base, and his smile was easy and gleaming. Your eyes flicked from his face to his brother’s and it was even more startling to see how sallow and pale the archer was.

It did finally prompt you to act and you tossed your trash and gingerly walked up to Hanzo’s table. He didn’t notice you—or at least, didn’t seem to—as you shuffled up to him. Finally, you were almost in arm’s reach and you croaked out, “Hey—are you okay?”

He snorted, his head nodding and his shoulders jerking, but he kept staring at the mangled ball that used to be a sandwich. “Kitten....”

“Umm... are you okay?” You shuddered slightly, feeling an omega’s natural apprehension around an alpha. “Do you... need help?”

“Help?” His voice was low and rough. “Do I need help.” His voice dropped lower into a growl. “I needed you before.” Your guilty swallow was almost audible. “No, my kitten. I do not need you now.”

You looked around and found more than a few people staring at you. It made a chilly panic run through your blood. Finally, you stepped away, staring at the archer with worry as you left him sitting there. By the best of luck, you happened to see Mercy walking down the hallway. “Hey! Dr. Ziegler!” 

She looked up at you with a smile on her face. “Hello.” She cocked her head and looked at you. “How are you doing? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“No....” you muttered. “Umm... at least, not for me.” Her crystal blue eyes were confused and not just a little concerned as you hedged around her question. “Have you...? Umm... have you seen Hanzo recently?”

She gave you a cool and professional smile. “Now, I cannot discuss a patient’s health, but... do you have concerns?”

You swallowed a deep breath of air. “It’s... something’s wrong with him. I mean... he was in his rut and... and now he is... ill.”

She smiled benignly at you. “Well, I cannot discuss his health with you, but I would guess he is unsteady.” You nodded in relief. “Is there anything else?”

“He’s... sweaty,” you explained with a gesture to your face. “Like he’s not feeling well. He didn’t eat anything much and it seemed like he was going to throw up his lunch.”

She was nodding and smiling. “Well, thank you for telling me.” She glanced around. “I will keep your confidence, but that is all I can do with respect to his privacy.”

You nodded in return, a shiver going down your spine. “Okay—I guess I understand. Thanks anyway.”

It still bothered you, though, as you went through training and mission prep. You couldn’t quite get it out of your head and you were sure that something serious was wrong. The strange and unsettling feeling that you couldn’t quite name stayed with you too as if it was stuck like gum to your shoe. You couldn’t even catch Hanzo’s eye at dinner when he seemed to guzzle tea and stare balefully at the roast chicken quarter, mashed potatoes, and green beans without eating it before tossing it into the trash with shaking hands.

At the end of your day, you felt awful. Something was definitely off—even if no one was actually saying it—and you felt sure that it was something related to your incident last night. You picked up a dessert—a white iced sponge cake with strawberries—and trudged up to his door. It was forbidding, like a frown sculpted from sheet metal, and you hesitated for a moment.

There was a rhythmic flutter of sound—soft thumps that made the door flutter. You thought it might be loud music—maybe Lucio was remixing somewhere close by. But otherwise, things were quiet enough you could hear little night frogs and crickets. For a moment, you wanted to run away, but that seemed cowardly and honestly, you were safe weren’t you?

So, taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. The rhythmic thumping didn’t falter, so you knocked again a little harder. The thumping stopped suddenly—full on silence coming from the apartment—and you couldn’t help but shudder. Should you keep trying? Or just let him be alone?

You were honestly about to turn around and gobble the dessert in your apartment when you heard a low growl. There was a pause and then a bass bark from the other side of the door. “What?”

You jumped away from the door and almost dropped the cake. You were turning around to leave him alone before you heard a bad-humored snort and a huff and then another snarl, “I thought so.”

That made you flush angrily and pound the door again. Finally, you called out “I wanted... wanted to be sure that you were... were okay.”

There was another low snort and he seemed to be unresponsive, but finally, he did call out in a hoarse voice, “I am fine.”

You sighed in frustration. “You are fine? I... I brought you a—.” What was this? “I brought you a peace offering. I wanted to check on you.”

“I am fine.”

“I mean, you really looked out of it,” you insisted.

“I am fine.”

You finally snapped, “You know what? Fine. You’re fine. Please forgive me for thinking that you might want a hand, Mr. Arrogant Ass Alpha.”

You put the cellophane box down on his doorstep and cursed under your breath as you stomped back to your apartment. He could choke on it. He could choke on every sweet bite and die right there and you wouldn’t lift a finger to help him if hell froze over. You took great delight in slamming your front door as hard as you could, hoping that his ears hurt with it.

Of course, as you sulked, you missed what happened outside next.

Hanzo’s door carefully slid open just a crack. A distrustful eye looked around and then down at the cake. When he was finally sure that no one was out there, he pushed the door open and stared at the red, yellow and white sweet.

He didn’t want anyone to see him as he dropped to his knees. Stretching out, he painfully uncurled his stiff hands and fumbled with the plastic packaging. His battered sparring gloves creaked as he dragged it to his lap. There, he cradled it as if it was a kitten, a child. With a gentle push, he closed the door as softly as he could.

You had thought of him after all.

You had taken a moment or two out of your day to bring him a treat.

After that disgusting display—his rut boiling out of control like an unwatched pot—you had found it in your heart to bring him something. His eyes flicked around the almost bare apartment. His ragged punching bag shuddered in slow, short arcs and creaked in protest. His weights were out of their customary places, scattered around where they could be convenient as he lurched between exhaustion and the manic periods he would force himself to do anything but race out the door. The zabuton cushions now had ripped seams and were balled into crazed shapes. His bedroom was just as bad with the futon pushed askew and the sheets were ripped off and balled into a messy pile in the corner. His walls fared no better and there were round dents here and there like pictures of violence on the wall.

You had seen him like that. You had seen him in his desperate rut. Most of the time, he could beat it back with meditation and near-constant training. He could lift the heavy bars of weights and pound the punching bag until he could not see, could not stand. Then he could drop wherever he was onto the rough carpeting and sleep until that boiling in his dick forced him to rise again. When his knuckles bled, his skin bruised, he could hump blindly into his fist and let his imagination run wild. And through it all, he would drink and let the burning alcohol burn out whatever remained.

Then you had stumbled in, crashing through his front door and almost falling flat to his floor. He had not expected... that. He thought he was in some exhausted dream that a comely omega had burst into his apartment. Exhaustion and more than a little rum and sake and three solid hours kicking and punching that huge bag would do that to a person—not to mention the rut making his wits swim.

He remembered scowling, annoyed that his usual routine had been broken, but also at the sudden flames in his blood. If this was a dream, you would stay there as he came up and when he set his hand on your arm, your shoulder, you would rise to embrace him. If this was a dream, you would not run from his stinking, violent rut and the throbbing in his body.

Instead, you had stumbled away as if he was a beast. You slammed the door in his face and had run to your apartment. The cracking of his door woke him up from his haze, forced him to face that this might not be a dream after all. He stood there, weaving uncertainly from foot to foot in a drunken stupor as he tried to figure out what had exactly happened only To become frustrated and pound door with his fists. 

He managed to reach his sake, then, as he realized what you must have seen. He drank it—every drop left in the bottle—as he tried to make sense of what he should do next. And as his cock ached and he paced, he talked to himself. You were an omega. You were right there and had run from him. You had never paid much attention to him. You might not even know his name....

And the more he paced, the more he had drunk, the more he was convinced that it would be the most natural thing in the world to walk from his door to yours. The most natural thing in the world to go and open your door and take you in his arms. He was not an ugly man—surely not unattractive to your eyes. He could be the alpha that claimed you.

You didn’t let him in.

He had not taken it that well. Nothing registered except that your door was closed. He pounded on it. He tapped and scratched on it. He begged and whispered to you. What had he said? He could not recall—not now at any rate—but he had tried. If he hadn’t been so soaked in alcohol and exhausted, he might have picked your lock, but as it was, he didn’t have his picks and by the time he thought of them, he was in a heap with his back to your door. His blood boiled and he could not even stand with that raging cock between his legs. It was a warm night and he tugged his sweatpants down. Without a second, drunken thought, he gripped his cock and began pumping furiously to the sound of your voice. His desperate seed spilled over his hand as you spoke to him in that soft, sultry croon.

How or when he exactly got back to his apartment, he didn’t recall. He only remembered waking up lying across his low table, staring at the shattered, empty sake bottle with his hands tacky and streaked. He managed to get himself up enough to pull on his pants and outside to look at your door. It made him sick—physically ill—to see the damage and to not recall any details.

So, he had called the security number, reported it himself. He opened a new bottle so that he could face them and their question and from their greenish pallor and their screwed up faces, they were willing to believe that he had been too drunk. When you didn’t raise an alarm—though he couldn’t imagine why—they were forced to take his report as truth that he had drunkenly damaged your door. Without any resistance on your part, they simply replaced and repaired the door.

As soon as they were gone, he had called Mercy. He was unaccustomed to begging, but he did beg her. The doctor had not been surprised—she knew everyone far better than anyone would admit—and had rushed over with a collection of pills and potions and injectors. He looked at her with burning, bloodshot eyes as she stepped into his apartment with her leather bag and a handful of slick paper pamphlets.

As soon as she was in his door, he begged for something—anything to take the edge off. His hands were jerking, his knees trembling and his skin ruddy and clammy all at once. Mercy had been terrified—he had seen it in her glacial eyes—as he babbled incoherently and guzzled sake. Finally, she had agreed to give him something and had opened that anachronistic bag. He had grabbed one of the injectors and with liquor slick dexterity, jammed it into his thigh and mashed the button.

It was a soul-draining feeling to have the boiling rut evaporate. He felt the feverish heat suddenly chill and it dropped him humiliatingly to his knees. Mercy had seen him shudder, almost vomiting at her feet, and had urged him to be checked out. She had almost demanded that he come to the medical bay immediately and he had shoved her away. She was all but shouting that the unmeasured dose had been too high, too dangerous, but he had simply been grateful to feel the rut receding like low tide.

He could not hope to see you again. Not after all that. It enraged him, embittered him. He could not hope that you would agree to have anything to do with him. He was almost sick with the hopelessness and the shuddering chills that racked him. It was all he could do to walk, to function, as that potion ran through his veins.

Yet, you had gone out and brought him a little bit of sweetness and left it at his door.

He didn’t dare trust himself to open the door. Not with you right there on the other side. Not when he could almost taste your lips and not when his hands curled in the air because they could not curl around you. He didn’t dare and his nerve failed him, so he had sent you away.

Who would have believed the legendary Dragon of the South was cowering from you?

At least his rut was suppressed enough he could think clearly enough to lie and send you away. Even if the medicine felt like it was going to kill him, he could think clearly enough to know that if he tried to spend a moment in your presence, he would drag you to the first flat space he could find.

He tugged at the plastic package and dug his fingers into the cake. The creamy sweetness choked him as he tried to devour the piece. The strawberries were crisp and ruby as the juice smeared all over his hand. His stomach twisted and he felt his belly clench but he gobbled the slice. It was a moist piece of cake but it clung and drug along the back of his throat like sandpaper. He licked his fingers, his palm like a mongrel cat.

The plastic box shattered in his hands as he dug for the last crumbs. The sharp edges drug along his skin and had he been a lesser man, it would have cut him. He didn’t regret it, couldn’t regret it and in fact, could only regret that there was no more.

It felt like he was choking on the edges of his dreams.

Weeks passed and whether it was fate or by design, you did not see the archer. You were not going out of your way to find him, but you had expected to at least see him once in a while. At lunch. Maybe at dinner. There was nothing, though, and the steel door across from yours remained inviolate and silent.

Talon must have sensed the growing stillness. The tips began pouring in that they were doing something big. Something with the old Shadowloo network and, you were getting worrying tips about huge weapons. You ended up spending insane hours at your desk, trying to make sense of the sudden influx of information. You would stare at the papers and notes and the screen and then—for a break—would stare at the growing collection of coffee cups and dirty napkins.

The days were unmercifully long and blended into nights that were uniform in their unrelenting march. You barely could drag yourself to your apartment to get enough sleep to start all over again. (It went without saying you had enough reward points at the coffeehouse to pay for coffee for the entire base.) You struggled through each day to cram as much factual information into your reports as you could. Everything was damning on the surface and it looked terrifyingly like Shadowloo and Talon were going to team up.

The mission was announced to a select few and even you were not allowed into that briefing. At some dark moment in the night, the team left in a new stealth transport. You spent the first watch monitoring the communications bands and the traffic cameras. Then the second shift came in, doubling the people in the cramped office area. Everyone worked frantically, shuffling notes and papers and scrambling for every hint of information that they could get from the straining microphones and speakers.

You were thrilled to hear the commander finally signal the retreat. The coms lit up again as everyone got back to the transports and took off. The whole office cheered wildly as they were dismissed. You shoved all the empty cups into the garbage bags as they were passed around and finally you saw the top of your desk.

You staggered towards your apartment, exhausted and bone sore. Everything seemed to hurt—even the light coming from the parking lots—as you pulled out your keys. You shook as you pushed the rough key into the lock. You managed to get inside on the inner promise of getting a hot shower and a very tall drink of something cold.

You didn’t get that far, of course.

You got a cold soda and sat down on your couch to take off your shoes. You tugged them off and then closed your eyes for a moment. Just a moment and you’d do something. You leaned back instead, and never even noticed when you started snoring.

You were caught in a dream of hot sun on a deserted beach when your feverish body woke you up. Everything was hot and sticky and felt almost clammy with need. It took you time to realize that it wasn’t a dream anymore. You couldn’t move without feeling racing tingles up and down your skin and your mouth was dry, and you had never felt such throbbing.

You got to your feet and every single nerve was on fire. Of course—of all the worst possible times—you had forgotten your cell phone in your car. You didn’t have more than a brain cell or two functioning and somehow decided that it was a great idea to go and get it.

You could barely get out of your front door, though. Then your legs gave up, gave out, and you dropped. How long your heat had been boiling in your blood, you had no idea. Hell, you had no idea you had been asleep. Or how long you’d been home.

Finally, you decided you needed help. No, really, you needed help. Hanzo’s door was right there. You drug yourself over to it and, fuck, you leaned right up into it. The steel was cool and firm and steady. Even when you knocked. Even when you heard nothing and pounded on it.

The door was stubbornly closed—even when you tried the locked knob—and silent. Hell, he might be asleep. You pounded again and again, finally crying and whimpering.

“H-h-hanzo! Come on—wake up.” You knocked again, suddenly alarmed at the little sounds of the night that shifted and stirred when you kept hitting the door. “Please... please, Hanzo! Wake up.”

You thought you heard a sound and took heart in it. “Come on. Look... I’m sorry when... when I-I-I... when I didn’t let you in.” Tears came to your eyes as you tried to resist rubbing your hands between your legs. “I’m sorry—so sorry. I am sorry that I didn’t let you in. I’m so... sorry.”

You pounded the door with your fist and tried again. “I’m sorry. I was... was scared and I didn’t know what to do and I was so so so scared.” Tears filled your eyes and slid down your cheeks and you swore you heard something this time. “I’m sorry. I was scared and... and now I need your help. Please—please help me.” There was nothing but silence now. “Please... help me.”

The silence engulfed you as the tears and sobs kept coming. You knew he wasn’t coming. He would have answered by now, surely. So, you drug yourself up to your knees. You needed help—and now—and no help was coming.

You still needed to try one more time and you pounded on the door one more time. “Please, Hanzo—I’m so sorry. I need... help....”

Then there was that sound behind you. You shuddered, clawing at the door and shrieking wildly. Someone else had found you. Your heat had boiled out and someone else decided you were tasty. Jesse. 76. Who knew which alpha had found you and who knew what they were going to do?

“Kitten,” rumbled from behind you.

You finally looked over your shoulder and saw Hanzo standing there in his dark black mission armor, his bow in his hand, and the almost empty quiver over his shoulder. His eyes were dark and mysterious as he studied you as you huddled at his door.

His head cocked and a rebellious thread of hair fell in his face. “Kitten... what are you doing here?”

You couldn’t help but babble at him. “Hanzo... please. You have to let me in. You have to... please help me. Please, Hanzo. Help me—you have to help me—.”

He pulled down his thick tactical mask, his face curious and concerned, but... guarded. “Why are you here, Kitten?”

“Please help me. Please help me. You gotta do something! Please—.”

He took a shuddering step closer to you, knelt down beside you. His rough hand brushed your forehead and it was a chilled relief. You pressed into that hand, that palm, with tears in your eyes as you kept babbling and whimpering. Then as he brushed your hair back with a gentle touch, he pressed a little closer.

You dizzily stared up at him—a warrior of shadows conjured out of the night by a boiling heat—and he leaned closer. Then, with a deep breath, he gave you an understanding grin. Still, you couldn’t stop whimpering, “I’m so sorry. I mean, I didn’t... no, shouldn’t have kept my door locked and I... I’m hurting so bad and I... I’m scared and I don’t want anyone else to find me like this—.”

“Kitten,” he smiled, “you are babbling.”

Without hesitation, he reached and closed your front door—who knew you had left it open?—and then opened his own. He slung the bow over one broad shoulder and then scooped you up in his arms. Only an alpha could feel like that—all thick muscle gliding so smoothly and effortlessly and such an even walk.

Your fingers dug restlessly at his armor with an instinctive drive. Your mind went blank except for the repeating drumbeat of “Too late. Too late.” repeating over and over in your head. He didn’t seem to notice as you kept babbling and kept pulling at his armor. Instead, he simply brought you into his apartment and through to his bedroom.

The bedroom was not what you had imagined. A simple futon on a pine frame with blue sheets and a pleasant quilt with pictures of cranes and koi and fans on it. There were several heavy pillows at the head and a small cube chest of dark red wood with a gleaming brass clasp on one side with a phone charger coiled up neatly on it, under a small lamp. The closet was closed and there were a few dark hooks on the wall.

He knelt beside the futon in a swift and certain move that gave you no time for uncertainty. It wasn’t like being dropped or falling from a height—more like the dip of a well-loved swing into the gentle softness of the thick mattress. You whined as his arms pulled away, leaving you feverishly hot and chilled at the same time.

“Please, Hanzo. Please... I’m so scared and it hurts so much and I’m in heat and I am so sorry.” You hiccuped as tears flowed down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t... didn’t—.”

“Kitten, you are still babbling,” he murmured. “Stay here, eh?” You nodded blindly, wiping furiously at your tears and feeling your cheeks sting. “Shh... just stay here.”

You nodded helplessly, tugging at your clothes. He stepped away, keeping his dark eyes glued to you, and you were shocked—on whatever level you could still be shocked—to see him not yank off his clothing, but instead fetch a wet washcloth. He came back and knelt again beside you, the cloth dripping over his dusty handguards.

“Now, pet—I know it hurts,” he crooned. The cloth went to your brow, down your fevered cheeks to your neck, and you shuddered at how cool it felt. “I know it hurts.” You nodded as he ran the cloth over your hands and wrists. “Kitten... you must have known this was coming?” You shrugged and shook your head. “You must....”

He sighed, watching you as you writhed on his futon. You were shaking and rolling now. He frowned and his brow creased as he took hold of your shoulders and got you on your back again. “Kitten,” he sighed patiently. “Kitten, you must listen to me.”

You shook your head and looked over at the door. Some new kind of fear was holding you and you were certain that he meant to leave you now. That you would be punished now—an act of sick revenge where you were going to sweat and thrash through a painful heat without respite. He wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone, would he? You were desperate now, and maybe... maybe you could get to Jesse or to a phone or something. You needed to get help....

You tugged lightly at your clothes, trying to roll some way and get upright. The archer gave you a small smile and wiped your skin with the cloth. He murmured, “My poor little kitten, you need relief.”

You nodded wildly, glad to have him understand. He was not entirely without a heart. Hopefully, he wasn’t playing with your head when you couldn’t help your reactions. “Please—I mean... I’m so sorry and I didn’t open the door because I was scared—.”

“And I was not the most gentle in my demands, eh, Kitten?” He took a moment to loosen your clothes, pull your shirt loose, and to undo a few buttons. You shook your head and then nodded wildly as he returned with the cloth. “You need relief now, little one.” He took a heady breath. “And I have no suppressants to give you.”

You were shuddering as he pulled away one more time. Hanzo rose to his feet and you saw him drop his weapons, peel off his armor with creaks and soft thumps until he was only in a pair of slick under armor pants. Kneeling beside you again, he stroked your skin lightly. “I cannot give you suppressants and there is only one other form of relief. Do you understand me, little one?” You nodded blankly, hoping that was the correct answer. “I will help you, Kitten—if you want me to.” His eyes hooded expectantly as he leaned closer and gently spread his large hand over your belly. “But make no mistake. If I do this—you are mine and your pups are mine and I do not share and I do not let go.”

Your eyes went wide and you couldn’t help but pant. A heightened sensitivity rippled through your belly, under his palm. He was only pressing firmly—enough to push on your skin—but the weight of his gaze and his expectations seemed to hold you down. He wasn’t going to go anywhere and not even his hand moved when you twisted. All that your twisting accomplished was that you made it a little hard to breathe.

His eyes glittered and he slowly repeated. “There is no other form of relief I can offer you. But you will be mine, your pups will be mine. I do not share and I do not let go. Do you understand, Kitten?”

There was a moment that you panicked. Immediately, you kicked wildly, the covers going into wildly. He wasn’t moving and he pinned you with the fire in his gaze. Finally, you realized you couldn’t pull away. He was patient in his blazing and addicting way and he wanted an answer before he moved again. There was nothing else you could do, so you nodded with a thin cry.

He accepted your approval with a solemn nod in return. His eyes were still burning as he stared at you, but his hand lifted slightly, stroked your skin in your feverish heat daze. Then he dropped a soft kiss to your forehead. “I will be your alpha and you will be mine. Your pups will be mine. Always.”

His words shivered down your spine. That made you suddenly jerk again. You let out a wordless cry and tried to roll. He gripped your shoulder, though, and tugged you back to face him. You curled up into a ball, looking up at him wearily and almost afraid that he never would help you.

“Are you afraid, Kitten?” You nodded wildly and twisted. “Be still. Take a deep breath. Try to relax, Kitten, eh?”

You watched helplessly as he began tugging on the cushions and quilt and sheet. He scooted them close around you and wrapped the quilt and sheet into soft piles in a loose circle around you. It made you feel somewhat calmer in an instinctual way that had no conscious words to have some kind of loose imitation of a nest around you. He gave you a short smile and patted your head before disappearing into the other room. You rolled to your hands and knees weakly as he came back with an armful of snacks and chilly looking water bottles and a polished gourd with a corked steel stem coming out of the top.

He laughed as you lunged for the bottle of water. “At least the heavens have been merciful in that I was just coming in, eh?” He dropped everything beside the futon and kicked his armor aside. “This was not the best of times, but, rest assured, not the worst either.”

You stared at the makeshift nest and the collection of randomly grabbed supplies and nodded before pouncing on the closest water. It tasted so good, so cold that it might make your teeth ache. He pushed everything closer to you, smirking as you sorted aimlessly through the food. “As you can see, we have some supplies.”

The fever heat gave you just another second to appreciate that he had cool ranch flavored seaweed chips before he stroked your shoulder. Instantly, your logical mind crumbled as he crept closer to sit beside you on the futon. For some reason, there was something different about the way he... smelled. He smelled so good you abandoned the plastic bag of chips and scooted over to him. You crawled in his lap, your nose going into his chest and along his neck.

His hands gripped your waist to steady you as you straddled him, but otherwise, he did not stall or halt your progress in exploring the tawny skin he had bared. He tasted like an exotic candy as you lapped at his neck with salty and sweet mixing on your tongue. Finally, he cupped your hips and tugged gently so that you were almost there—almost joined with him and separated from his hard cock by only soft and slick fabric.

Hanzo smiled at you and pulled his hands away to slide the scrunchie and the gold cloth from his long hair. It slid down in some hypnotic flowing way that seemed to be almost like oil pouring down. You instinctively ran your fingers through it as he smiled in pleased amusement. It smelled of his sweat—salty and sweet—and some exotic perfume that made you lean even closer to him. You almost wanted to taste his hair, to lick it, but what was that coming from?

“Eager, Kitten?” Hanzo purred. “I am as well.” He took in a deep breath that seemed to only make him even more pleased. “Any alpha would be proud to claim you, Kitten—and you are mine.”

Rough hands reached up and ripped your shirt but even that was in a slow, methodically deliberate way. In fact, he ripped apart every part of your clothes that he could readily reach. Your clothes hung in tatters around you and you were distantly amazed that your instinctive reaction was to help him.

One hand held your shoulder in a firm grip as his other went to the curls between your legs. His finger slid deftly and then turned until they could curl and press into your warm, wet heat. At last, you had a taste of relief as he pushed up and down in a gentle rhythm.

“My kitten is in heat,” he whispered roughly.

You mewled as he moved and twisted you so that you were laying down on the futon and staring up at him. Gentle hands with rough fingers tore the last rags of your clothing off and shoved them off the futon. His tongue traced after his fingers, little cat licks that made you wriggle. His hands spread your ankles and then your thighs where he laid down with a contented rumble.

He started with a finger, sliding it inside you with an erotic, wet sound. You whined and thrust up hard as finally there was relief for that hungry heat in your belly. There was a snarling sound as you dug your fingernails into his fine sheets. He let out a snort and pulled back long enough for you to mewl in protest, then added a second finger. There was that moment of relief—blessed relief that your body was being satisfied—and then the vague feeling of stretching and sweetness.

Your desperation made your pleasure rush up. It was too much to feel that rough and thick caress. Almost instantly, you were thrusting, riding his hand with some kind of abandon you had never felt before. He didn’t even seem to notice, to mind, as your hands gripped his wrist and began moving it to your frantic rhythm. Of course, you barely noticed when he took the other hand away, but it was electric to feel those rough fingers begin plucking your nipples and then your clit. Amazingly electric—as if he had touched you and lightning had arched between you.

You wailed, falling to pieces beneath him.

He waited, patiently, until you were at last able to lay still. Your eyes fluttered closed and you flopped loosely on the rumpled sheets. He chuckled dryly and tugged the pillows and quilts closer around you, tucking you into the nest. He smirked as you yawned and he opened another bottle of water and then a bag of chips.

“You must rest,” he rumbled. “There is no rushing now.”

“But...?”

“I need to do some things.” He nodded in the direction of the bedroom door. “I would be dishonored if you lacked nourishment or treats during your heat.”

You frowned, wondering at his choice of words. “Dishonored?”

“To me—to every good alpha—it is a dishonor if our omegas are not well taken care of.” He stroked your skin. “It might be difficult for you to understand immediately, but you will understand in time.” He gave you a warm smile and tucked the sheet around you. “I could not live with my dishonor if I did not take care of you.”

You nodded slowly and closed your eyes. You were grateful for the sleep and were awakened by the sound of the front door closing. On shaky feet, you tucked the sheet around you and peeked out to see the archer standing with a uniformed delivery man, surrounded by paper grocery bags. Hanzo nodded shortly, signing the receipt and handing it back. Then the alpha quite calmly began picking up bags and taking them to the small kitchen area.

“You are awake,” he smirked. “Come on and get some food if you can.”

You gamely went to the bags, sticking your nose into each. He had a variety of things you could recognize—packages of ramen and soba noodles, a jar of peanut butter, a little bear bottle of honey, several frozen cans of orange juice, a box of crackers, a bottle of soy sauce, a dozen eggs, several packages of frozen vegetables—and then a few things you couldn’t. You took out a cool, white block with red characters on the plastic packaging and stared at it.

“Firm tofu,” Hanzo said from behind you. “I also got adzuki beans, rayu, miso, and silken tofu so that you can learn some of the foods of my homeland.”

You helped him put things away as you struggled to figure out what the Japanese groceries were. He had a precisely organized kitchen that he took a great deal of pride in. He also took a great deal of pride in showing you exactly where everything was—his drawer of chips and the tiny chocolate-dipped cookie sticks he loved, his carefully organized jars of staples (flour, green tea, tea bags, coffee, sugar and panko crumbs), the collection of carved and bamboo chopsticks, his carefully sharpened knives, each pan and pot, the large rice cooker, and his much loved Instant Pot.

He was showing you the stack of handwritten recipes in their flat, shallow drawer when he turned suddenly and shoved the drawer closed. “Come—this will be here we return.”

“Huh?”

He tapped his nose and put a firm hand under your elbow. “My sweet little one, I can smell your heat rising from here. I can see you shifting from foot to foot and I can tell that you are getting restless.” He began and slow and steady pace back to the bedroom. “It is not hard to deduce that your heat is rising again.”

You nodded slowly, almost surprised that he was absolutely right. Your heat was rising and while it wasn’t completely unbearable, it was coming. He laid you down again, amused, and smirking as he unwrapped your sheet and began tucking the pillows and quilt around you again.

His kisses were almost dainty as they rained down on your cheeks and across your forehead. He cupped your breasts and lifted them to his mouth, suckling on the tips and teasing them with his teeth. “You are so delightfully curved, my omega.” You gasped and spread your legs as he kissed them again. “I have never found such a thing so sweet to compare you to.”

Unexpectedly, he pulled back. You growled at him, your fingers clawing into his shoulders as he moved away. Unexpectedly, he wasn’t even upset at the red marks on his skin—he merely nodded and rose gracefully to his feet before peeling off his pants. Then he returned between your legs and picked up your arms to put them around his neck.

“Now, my greedy omega—we can properly continue,” he rumbled into your skin. “You are very impatient.”

You were shocked to have him thrust immediately into you. It was a startling feeling, to be empty one moment and then full the next. But the feeling was profound and rushed from your hair to your toes. You couldn’t resist the cry that rang out, the sheer joy that having your heat finally fulfilled made you feel.

He threw his head back and then you heard his deep baritone laugh. “My greedy omega—does my body please you so much?” He laughed again when you nodded and buried your face into his neck. “I am glad.”

He started an even pace of in and out that was smooth as silk. It was like he had been preparing, training, for this his whole life and every move flowed like water. Your legs locked around his hips as he sped up. Then the whole world went white with heat as he sped up again.

The pounding, the thick and muscled rhythm of it, took your breath away. But then he somehow bent to nibble your neck and you just about screamed. You couldn’t help it when your fingers tightened and clawed his skin. That made him growl and thrust in some blinding harder way. Even your shivers—those cold tingles down your spine at the man become animalistic on you, in you—made it better.

His tongue scraped over the little throbbing bump of your scent glans. Holy hell that just about hurt—like pressing a boil—and you jerked wildly away from him. Your body throbbed, trapped by his bulky weight. You were trapped and you felt panic curl your toes. Your muscles burned between trying to keep him right where you needed him and trying to escape.

His knees and toes dug into the futon and he shoved down and forward harder, his knot pressing harder into your core. There was a rumble in his chest and a ripping sound as his hips snapped one more time. His eyes were hooded and gleamed as he smirked at you, making a devilish feeling race through you. Just then, he pounced down on you and his teeth clamped down... right... there!

Stars burst behind your tightly clenched eyes and lightning arced in your blood as he growled over the new bond mark.

Like a rain rushing over the cracked sand in the desert, the flood of instinctive reactions washed over you wildly. Your body became more feverish, more sensitive, and even more eager for that fat, alpha knot. Your hands went down to grab his hips to tug. Of course, you were not a match for the strength of the alpha, but he got the message.

Releasing that bruising skin, he bucked again and you moaned to feel the knot finally slide inside you. A chill went through your body at the intense, sudden satisfaction of the knot. Immediately, he went from powerful thrusts to smooth rocking.

He cursed wildly, his head thrown back as a roar erupted from him. His fingers trembled, rippling across your skin only to clench down as you bucked again. The hoarse snarl sent shivers down your spine. “You are mine, omega! Mine and mine alone.” There was another shift of his hips. “Mine. You are my... my omega. My pups. My omega.... Mine!”

You rocked in time to his words, but when he began suckling at your glans, your new bond mark, you couldn’t stop the rippling, twisting pleasure that almost bent you double. You would have thought you were going to rip his cock off, but he only rocked back and forth as you came, waiting until your climax faded slightly before his face twisted, his eyes closed and he gasped. You could feel the knot twitch tightly as he came.

Then things were quiet. He panted with you, sweat gleaming over him. You were suddenly weary and felt fractious and restless. The alpha pushed his weight up on his elbows and knees wearily and pulled away. Everything felt slick and suddenly clammy and you gave him a whine.

He was not shy about his nakedness as he stumbled to his feet. You pouted at him, right up until he brought you a moist washcloth and a folded blanket. He gave you a shy smile as he brushed the cloth over your face and neck and down your arms. Then he patiently brushed your raw skin between your legs, cleaning the sticky from you. Finally, he tucked you in with the sheets and quilt and the blanket.

Without you even realizing how much you were suddenly craving dark and quiet, he dimmed the lights and started a new application on his phone that filled the space with a soft, soothing static. He did pause long enough to clean himself up—you vaguely heard the splashing in the bathroom—before laying down behind you. You were almost asleep when you felt the additional warmth and comfort of the alpha wrapping around you. Then, just before sunrise, he was up again, draping his spare sheets and towels and, in one case, a coat over the windows to darken the apartment even more.

At some unknown point, he stopped long enough to go to your apartment to gather your collection of bed pillows and a few of your favorite things—a lacy nightgown, a long body pillow, several oversized t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants along with going all over your apartment to find your various electronics and chargers so that you would have your phone and computer—before walking back to you. You had managed to get yourself up to drink some warm beef bone broth. (Hanzo had told you that it would warm you up and nourish you.) You were bone tired and your muscles ached, but the realization that Hanzo had left you—even temporarily—gave you a chilly fear that made you race around to lock the windows and doors. He was mightily surprised—he had left you tucked in the pillows and blankets—but only laughed when he saw you trembling in the kitchen, wielding a heavy cleaver.

“Little Kitten,” he rumbled uncertainly. “Were you so worried?” You gave him a short nod and he chuffed out a vaguely amused sound. “I went to fetch a few of your things. I thought that you would be more settled with something of your own.”

You looked anxious at the lumpy bundle in his arm, relieved to see familiar cushions and clothes. “Oh... I.... I was... scared.”

He nodded sagely. “Then we will be sure you are not.” He cocked his head at the butcher knife wobbling in your hand. “Come—we need to... feather your nest and I will be sure that you need not fear.”

If he was offended or upset, he did nothing to show it. Instead, he tucked your cushions on the futon and made room for your few clothes beside his. There was a long silence as he slid closed the last drawer and slid you into one of your t-shirts. In a low and patient voice, he whispered, “Are you content that you have what you need? And that I will get you anything you lack?”

“W-w-what?!”

His eyes closed slowly and then sighed, “Do you feel... safer now?” You gaped up at him. “You need not fear me, do you know that?” You nodded with a frown. “I thought to let you sleep—a heat is draining to an omega—while I went out.” He shrugged idly. “I thought it would be a surprise to you.”

He left you there, staring at the closet. You heard him close the door quietly behind you, leaving you in the bedroom alone. It gave you a shivery feeling, even though you could hear him just on the other side of the door. Finally, you plopped down on the futon, exhausted by the heat and the thoughts circling around in your head.

You shuddered under the covers. Nothing was making much sense right now. The alpha had come in and claimed you, but that... didn’t feel like a bad thing right at the moment. He had still just come in and taken over your life, though—right?! You wrestled back and forth, trying to think. You shuddered to think that if he... might leave you, for real. He seemed so sad—so disappointed. You didn’t know anything that he might be upset about, but then, you barely knew him at all, did you?

You took a nap without really intending to. You sort of woke up again at a random time—it was hard to get any sense of time in this artificial twilight—and went to get something cold to drink. Hanzo knelt at his low table, staring at the things on it. You crept up to see what was happening, hoping to ask him a few questions before your heat made it impossible to speak.

“Umm... hey.” Hanzo didn’t do more than shrug and glance at you over his shoulder. You took that as some kind of assent and knelt beside him. Looking at the things on the table, you studied the long lacquered chopstick with a thread holding three pearls, the photo hologram disk, and a scrap of golden lace. “Can we—? I mean... what—?”

He interrupted you. “I was simply figuring out what to do.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at you, but then he seemed to grow solemn and resigned. “When I am uncertain, I talk...” A flush went over his cheeks and he touched a button on the disk and a hologram of a petite, smiling Japanese woman in a pretty green and blue kimono appeared. “When I do not know what to do, I talk to her.”

You frowned at the little hologram as it waved regally. He kept staring at it, nodding as if it said something. You tilted your head, trying to think and finally sighing, “So, is this like an old girlfriend or something? Your mother?”

“My mother,” he whispered. “She is....” He tapped the button, making the little image fade away. “I suppose that you would call it stupid.”

“What? No. Of course not.”

He gave you a wry grin. “I would say it is foolish if I was you.” He touched each object. “She died giving birth to Genji, so I have very few memories of her. I have only a few photos of her. She was supposed to have worn this in her hair and liked it very much. Her favorite obi had lace like this.” He stroked the chopstick and the three pearls on the end. “When I... left the Shimada yakuza, I had these. The lace I always carried so that I could tie it to an arrow to signal Genji. This last a part of an antique set of combs and hairpins that she left to me for my mate.” He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Mine had pearls with black lacquer and she had another set of silver for Genji.”

You watched as he carefully touched the pearls, the lacquered shaft, and then straightened out the gold lace on his low table. Finally, he touched the disk and another hologram appeared of the woman in an even more formal kimono of black and gold with an embroidered dragon wrapping around her thighs to her ankles. She had what appeared to be the traditional geisha makeup on—a white face, throat and neck, a red bee-sting lip, and gray eyebrows—and held a fan.

“I stole this from my father’s old office the last time I went to Hanamura.” He shrugged lightly. “The authorities have turned it into a museum. Some illustrious ancestor had it restored and registered as a historic landmark. There was nothing else they could do with the estate, so they turned it into a museum.

“If you have any humor, you will find it amusing that they turned it into a yakuza museum. There are wax figures of my uncles, my father. A few cousins. My father’s office is... mostly intact. The boardroom is intact—although they couldn’t have moved the huge table with the inlaid dragons anyway without destroying it. My suite has been turned into an exhibit of weapons. Genji’s suites are filled with pictures of a lot of famous yakuza from a lot of families. My mother’s suites display a number of her more famous kimono and obi on stands and reproductions of jewelry and, of course, hairpins. The hallways and the front room we used to play go in are now galleries of criminals and yakuza and crime scenes.

“Everything has been cleaned out, of course. The hidden safes have had their locks burned out and are empty. The hidden drawers as well—so all of the money, drugs, and valuables are gone. The secret passages—even the tunnels—are discovered. Some of them are blocked off—walled off—but the rest are an after-hours exhibit and an escape room. I barely recognize what they have done to it all.

“The last mission through the city, I did not meet up with the others immediately. I snuck into Sojiro’s office and got a few things. I took this and the pen our Father used for Genji.” He gave you a small, sad smile. “Sojiro was a fan of spy movies and Genji gave him that pen one birthday because it had a hidden USB drive that could record about an hour of audio. It was a silly thing, but it had a recording of our father talking about... well, nothing honorable at any rate. Still, he wanted something to remember....”

“And you?”

“I would... rather forget, I think.” He sighed and stroked the lace gently. “Father was not particularly good. He was... I suppose he did his best with the situation he found himself in.” He pointed to the hologram. “He was my mother’s danna.” His hands went into fists. “It was his way to ensure that he had an omega. Since she was an omega, she did not have a lot of options, so he—even as a teenager—plotted to become her danna. He paid for her to go to school, to train as a geisha and study poetry, music, dance.... Then, as her danna, he could force her to attend his parties, to accompany him anywhere he chose. Then, one day, he cornered her and told her that he would stop protecting her, stop paying for her expenses if she did not become his mate. And since she was so closely associated with him—then the wakagashira of the Shimada yakuza—no one else would help her.”

You frowned at the little hologram. “So, she ‘retired’ from entertaining and performing and became his mate. He was thirty and she was twenty.” He shrugged again, turning off the hologram. “It was legal. She was barely a full geisha—Sojiro paid for her mizuage, too—but according to everyone who knew her, she was... charming and intelligent and talented.”

“She was very pretty.” Hanzo gave you a bare nod. “I suppose you miss her....”

“One cannot miss what one does not remember,” he grunted sourly. “But the advantage of not remembering her is that I can choose to believe whatever I wish about her. So I choose to believe that she could listen to me and would offer me sage advice.”

“And you talk to her.”

He scooped all of the items and began to put them into a small, flat box. His cheeks flamed hot and he refused to meet your eyes. “It is... not important.”

“No—,” you whispered, “hold on. Tell me more.” He paused, looking over at you. “What were you two talking about?”

He seemed torn but finally left the things where they were. “I was....” His voice dropped to a low, uncertain growl. “I am... at a loss.” He sighed. “I left you to get your things—as a surprise. And you were alone and afraid.”

You gave an embarrassed mew and said, “What did she say?”

He looked at the hologram. “She said that as an alpha, I was to correct this.” He nodded slowly. “And that you sounded nice.” He shrugged again, turning off the disk and pushing everything into its box. “It is a foolish habit.”

Hanzo stood up and helped you to your feet. “Now, let me know why you are up.”

You went with him and he fixed you a meal of rustic stir-fried rice and opened a jar from his fridge with pickled vegetables. He was almost silent as he gave you chopsticks and a bottle of water and you nearly missed as he put the box away in a bottom drawer.

Your heat was unremitting and you barely ate half of the portion he gave you before you felt that fever in your veins again. He pushed the dishes aside and laid you out on the floor. There was a series of long days where he was... quite vigorous in mating with you. He seemed to have an endless imagination of sexual positions and erotic activities, but he seemed withdrawn, too.

You never saw the box or the little mementos again. In fact, Hanzo seemed to be very determined to distract you from it. If you brought it up, then he would change the subject or find something else. He ran you a bath. He gave you a foot massage. He streamed videos for you on his laptop. He gave you a room by room tour to show you where his hidden weapons were. There was always something he offered you rather than talk about it.

You were laying on his futon, sweaty and sticky when he left to cook something that smelled a lot like burgers. He had promised to fix you something “American” tonight. Your eyes were starting to close to take another nap when you heard a crash. That made you shriek and leap up to your feet. On cautious feet, you picked up a knife he had hidden along the side of one of the slats of the futon frame and crept out.

Hanzo was frozen to the spot, one hand holding up a spatula and the other holding the pan. He looked over his shoulder at you and then nodded. Turning back to the burners, he turned the holes off and then gave you a bow. “I dropped the pan.”

“I heard it,” you whispered in return. You showed him the knife. “I just... panicked.”

He nodded slowly again. “I apologize for startling you.” He waved at the pan and the dark—almost black—patties. “I am... not good with hamburgers.”

You swallowed at the patties. “Umm....” 

He sighed and pushed the pan away. “I will do something else.”

“No... it’s fine. Really.” He gave you a thin smile and nodded as you handed him the knife. “But... I want to know.... Did I do something wrong? I mean, are you mad at me?”

He seemed surprised and chuckled, “No. Of course not.”

“But... why are you... acting so weird? I mean—you don’t laugh or anything like in the beginning. I am starting to think that.... I mean—. Oh hell, I don’t know.” Tears went to your eyes for a reason you couldn’t think of. “If I... I interrupted you with your mom—I didn’t know it was important and it’s not silly and I think... it’s kind of sweet to remember your mom like that.”

He gave a gentle shushing noise and walked slowly up to you to embrace you. Strong arms wrapped around you and he rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. “Little Kitten... you need rest and to relax.” You were going to smack him when he murmured, “I... was told that it is... a sign of a... successful heat cycle that the omega wants quiet and dark places. Somewhere safe that can hold a nest.” There was a very long pause and he repeated softly, “Somewhere safe....”

He went still and silent, holding you. Your voice was small and uncertain and you could only hope he heard it. “But... I am safe.”

You felt a shiver run down his body. Unexpectedly, his voice was softer as he warbled, “Do you... believe that?”

Your arms gripped him. “Yes—of course!”

It was almost impossible to describe, but something—some string holding him upright—snapped right then. His every muscle went limp and he sagged against you. “You feel safe with me?” he whispered again. At your nod, he gripped you harder. “It... it is important that you feel safe. That you feel secure and protected so that you and the pups are healthy.”

You tugged him over—hell, he didn’t have a couch or anything—to the short table and cushions. Sitting down next to him, you wrapped your arm around him. “I feel safe. Of course, I do.”

His body shook as much as his voice and he seemed to be on the verge of tears. “I was... so certain that... that you could not feel safe. That you would never feel safe with a... a yakuza.” His eyes ached as he looked at you. “You do know? That I used to be a yakuza? A criminal?” You nodded. “I left it behind—I swear. I am a changed man.”

He nuzzled your shoulder. “I left it all behind because it destroyed Genji. I thought.... I did not want a mate when I was a yakuza—she would only be killed or hurt and our children would always be a target. So... I left Genji to that—to find someone and to have the children that my father wanted. Genji was always lingering behind—to keep him safe in case I got killed so that there was always an heir—and he would be able to stay close to a mate.

“When I left the Shimada-gumi, I was sure I would never have a mate. I had no money. I had nothing to offer and no place to stay. Any mate I had would never carry pups to term because she would never feel safe and secure.

“And when I came here—I found myself as an alpha among many alphas. It was... strange, but I accepted that I would remain without a mate. I was going to live my life as a monk and to forget that I wanted... that I wanted a mate and children of my own.”

He laughed—one of those genuine baritone laughs that seemed to sparkle. “I was settled across from a beautiful omega. I thought that you... you would make the first move. I thought that... if I made the first move, you would feel threatened....” He snorted. “I have wanted you with every rut since I first saw you and every... every time I would ask Mother if... if I could go just that far to your door.”

You gave him a smile. “And what did Mother say?”

“She said that if I picked your front door lock and claimed you, you would never feel safe with me.” He gave you a laugh and seemed to snuggle into your warmth. “She was right, of course. So I would wait until the next time. And she would tell me to be patient and have courage. That my time would come if I was patient.”

“Oh, really?”

“I was going to claim you... when you stumbled into my door. I was going to grab you and claim you and you... you were going to finally be mine.” He gave you an uncertain smirk. “Then you were... right there on my doorstep, in heat, and... and I could not believe that you were....”

He laughed slightly. “Mother will be happy to know that she was right, of course. She has always liked you.”

You flushed bright red. “You told your mother about me?!”

“Of course.”

His eyes went wide and worried. “And... and she has said that I have to keep you safe. That if I did not keep you safe, you would find someone who would. That it could... could cause... problems with the pups.”

You smiled at him. “Of course. I am safe here. You are the famous Hanzo of Overwatch!”

He smiled down at you and pulled you over his lap. “I am only a man and you are my mate. You must be protected.” You wriggled and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I will do anything to keep you safe. If there is anything that you need, anything that will make you feel more secure, then you must tell me because I will not risk you or the pups.”

While most of the base seemed to be on top of the gossip that you and Hanzo had gone “on leave” at the same time, it was mostly considered a coincidence until Junkrat saw Hanzo standing behind you at the range the next day, helping you draw the heavy Storm Bow. By lunchtime, Hana and Genji had somehow found pictures of you and Hanzo firing the Storm Bow—maybe from security cameras, maybe from some random cell phone, maybe from a ninja’s stealthy surveillance—and then posted the pictures all over the place.

Genji crowed and fussed and made a general ass of himself, teasing Hanzo unmercifully, and you were honestly glad to be going back at his apartment. You rolled your eyes as he locked the door behind you, “What a pain in the ass!”

Hanzo snorted, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Indeed.”

“I don’t blame you for killing him,” you muttered sourly, going for the fresh juice in the fridge. “I want to kill him. Especially for that one he sent to the commanders with the stupid marker hearts and flowers. All of them.”

He nodded with a smile. “Please.” He shrugged and gestured. “I was hoping... you would like to talk with Mother.”

His eyes were wide and anxious, like a Labrador puppy’s, and you melted. Walking over, you put your arms around his waist. “I would be honored to talk to your mother.”

“You don’t... think it is strange? That I am not crazy for talking to... my dead mother?”

“Of course not.” You stood up and kissed his cheek. “You honor her in your way, in the way that you feel best.”

“She.... I miss her. But I would not... could not make you uncomfortable.” His eyes were wide and worried again. “I stopped because I thought that... you would leave if I did. So, I... stopped.”

Your eyes went wide and worried. “Honey—don’t do that. Don’t stop. We honor our families. We... do our best.”

He snorted again. “You always say that—‘honey’—when you are worried.”

“What?!”

He shrugged. “It is one of your tells. You read like a book—so avoid games where you have to bluff. You call me ‘honey’ when you are worried. So what are you worried about?”

“You! You goofball—.”

“Goofball?”

“You... you....” You let out an exasperated sound. “Look... you want to talk to your mother—do it. I won’t say anything. And besides—you weren’t here when we had Blackwatch.”

“What?”

“Yeah... the Blackwatch commander—he had a whole altar set up with flowers and pictures and skulls and candles and he would set up bread and cakes and bottles of tequila and stuff.” You smiled at him. “You should have seen when November would come and he would spend hours talking to all of the pictures. He’d get really drunk and anyone in a mile radius would get grabbed and he would tell them all about his family.”

Hanzo laughed shortly. “It is called an ‘ofrenda’, I believe.”

“You know about the Day of the Dead?”

He shrugged innocently. “I get around.”

“Anyway, let’s talk to Mother.”

He got the flat box from the kitchen and brought it out. “I have never shown anyone this.”

Slowly, he set out the hairpin, the lace, and the little disk. He rotated through the images to find a hologram of her smiling and kneeling formally and set it up in front of you both on the low table. Kneeling, he bowed from the hips to her and you copied his movements.

“Mother... I want to introduce my mate....”


End file.
